


what's your motive?

by wesninskids



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, blowjob, handjob, porn?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 17:43:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2476859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesninskids/pseuds/wesninskids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Armin lives next door. He goes out every night and usually comes home drunk, knocking at Eren's door.<br/>It's not the first time Armin's entering without permission. But it's definitely the first time Eren is giving up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what's your motive?

**Author's Note:**

> It's a part of a fic idea I have, kind of a trash, Roco-like AU, with only fluff and smut.  
> Wrote it for Nick.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. It wasn’t supposed to happen at all. Hell, he wasn’t even supposed to be here—so why the hell was it happening? Lonely Friday means lonely Friday, someone sucking your dick is strangely not accurate.

Armin was drunk. That wasn’t really surprising. It probably was the fourth time this week, and it was only Friday. He’d always come home completely wasted, too steps away from throwing up, so pale he could faint at any second—yet he’d still laugh his ass off like suddenly everything made sense. 

I didn’t fight. Armin was a big boy after all, he had to make his own decisions and face the consequences, right? I didn’t care. Right? 

He knocked at my door, though. It was late, always; late enough to just ignore it and sleep, but all I had done was sitting on the floor with a bowl of crappy cereals, so I guess I didn’t have anything better to do. 

Armin entered without any permission, not that it was new. I heard muffled steps and he stumbled towards the couch against which I was resting, but it’s only when he leaned in that Armin talked.

“I hate people.” Clumsy words, shaky voice, not a doubt, Armin was drunk as fuck. 

I ate the last cereal in my bowl and put it on the ground. Cleaning later, also called not cleaning at all. Not until an unknown form of life is created.

“Why?” I asked, because he wanted me to. I could hear his ragged breath and patient eyes lingering in my back. 

He jumped on the couch and I felt something brush my neck. A hand, at best—then he threw his shoes behind him and they noisily landed on the floor.

“Because they suck,” he just said. I heard him move behind me, probably taking off the clothes he didn’t need, and just silently prayed that he wouldn’t end up naked. That wouldn’t be the first time after all. “This guy is an ungrateful bitch,” he snarled, then stilled on the couch.

The TV was loud enough to be heard in clean, linear silence—and we both stayed quiet as if it mattered. It didn’t, though. The shit on the TV at 3 am went from kid’s shows to teleshopping. I guess it’s just the human condition to sit in the dark, on the ground, in front of your goddamn television, and pretend that you’re not the piece of shit that you actually are.

“What have you done?” I finally said, because I was getting tired of the silence, and I knew he also wanted me to ask. He was just too proud and… too drunk to say it out loud. He didn’t really care more than that.

I don’t remember much of that night. But something stuck—the smell. It fucking stank. Dishes weren’t clean, plates were being piled up in the kitchen, both on the counter and in the sink, and as if it wasn’t enough, Armin smelled cheap, low quality alcohol, the one you buy when you’re fifteen and fucking poor. Strangely enough, the description suited him.

He wasn’t fifteen. He was a fucking adult, and so was I, but we were fully unable to grow up in time, that’s it, that’s the big fucking deal. That’s the plot of the story. Are they going to become responsible? Will they pay they bills and find a good girl to marry? Ha, let me laugh. Plot twist: none of us were interested in resolving the so-called plot. We were the main characters of our own side-story.

I met Armin at a time where I was sure I wouldn’t meet anyone. You know, you see someone for the first time, you exchange names and you say, hey, what’s up, but no one fucking cares about the answer. Then you part and you slowly, surely forget about the other, and one day you wake up and this person never existed. Armin isn’t that kind of person. He sticks. He stays. He comes back, again and again, even when you don’t want him to come back.

He’s a fucking genius, he’s a human prodigy with lost hopes and a cruel lack of interest. He’s the clever guy who manipulates everyone, he’s the one who’ll knock at your door at 3 am and that you’ll let in, because, what else can you do, heh? 

I wouldn’t be wrong to say Armin gave my life a meaning. Probably not the kind of meaning you’d think of, but still. I had a reason to wake up in the morning, just to complain about Armin’s clothes scattered here and there even though he lived next door; just to complain about the television program; just to complain about the empty void in my fridge and the one, even bigger, in my goddamn stomach; I was there because Armin was the only factor pushing me off the edge. And God knows he’s fucking good at it.

I felt Armin leaning in and his breath ended up on my head. Not that I really cared about the sight I was showing, though: I hadn’t showered in three days. Four this night. Greasy hair, tired face, pale skin and the good old body smell, you can’t ask for more. 

Armin wasn’t in a better state. His eyes were big and red, he looked like he was about to cry and laugh at the same time, with a little gleam of madness in his gaze. He looked awake, more than I was, at least. He looked fucking awake. 

I heard a low chuckle and felt a hand in my hair, but it felt good, so I just closed my eyes.

“Nothing.” He sighed like I knew he would. “I gave him a condom in exchange of a cigarette. He took my condom but left with the cigarette as well. Bastard.”

I frowned, opened my eyes, and slowly turned my head to the side so I could at least catch a glimpse of his face.

“Why’d you have a condom?”

He just stared at me without saying anything, and I wondered if he had understood my words. I looked back at the television, trying to find an interest, trying to give a damn, just one would be enough—and Armin’s fingers ran in my hair again.

This time, he didn’t stop. He kept playing with my hair so I just let him.

“Armin?” He didn’t answer, but I heard the quiet, usual ‘hm’ he’d always make. “Why are you always here? I mean, you’ve got fucking skills. You’ve got your questionable business and your own shit, and judging by how Mikasa talks about you, you practically have a girlfriend. So, why are you wasting your time, huh?”

I felt the boredom deep inside my chest. I perfectly knew Armin was too drunk to really think of a valid answer, to answer at all, actually, but he still did. 

“Trust me, this isn’t that. Maybe Mikasa’s what I need to be honest. But she’s far away from what I want.”

For a second, I swore he had leaned closer.

“Trust me,” he repeated, “people suck. Friendship, relationships… nothing is selfless in the end.”

“What do you mean?”

Poor ignorant child. 

“Come on,” he sang loudly near my left ear, and I cringed. Drunk Armin has no notion of sound and distance. “Can you tell me which person you are friend with and from who you don’t expect anything? There’s always a motive, there’s always something. Even the most stupid, little things.”

I stayed quiet for a moment, both to register what he had just said, and to think of an answer in my turn. I thought about all of the friends I had, not much, to be honest—I listed the names and the patterns, and in the end, Armin talked again.

“What do you want from me?”

Well, poor ignorant child’s little heart skipped a beat, I see. 

“What?” I said, silently panicking, nervously laughing, because Armin’s fingers were long and somehow wandered around my neck bone. 

“What do you want from me?” he repeated, but he sure as fuck knew I wasn’t deaf. “We’re friends, right?” Silence—heh, silence is tantamount to consent. Right. “So, what’s your motive?”

My mouth went all dry and I thought, fuck. This bastard is an asshole sober—but when he’s drunk, you feel like an idiot, because what he’s saying makes more sense than the bullshit you’re saying.

Both of his hands stilled on my head and I felt a light wave of heat rushing through my veins.

“Say, Eren,” he went on, “am I your friend?”

“I guess.” 

We weren’t quite friends but we weren’t simple acquaintances. Actually, I was pretty sure we were there for each other without really saying it. He was always crashing at my place, two meters away from his own doorstep, and I was obediently tolerating his presence. I knew I was an idiot for doing so, but I’d always leave my door open because I knew, somehow, that he’d always come back.

He always did.

Armin slid off the couch and landed beside me. I didn’t look, at first, because I was still deeply lost in my own thoughts. Armin always had the right words, the good ones: those who strike and hurt and make you realize that you’re nothing more than a lazy piece of shit and that life is only something overrated. Yeah, of course, it’s cool to be alive. You can eat a cake, take a shit, sleep during two days in a row and get yourself off as much as you want, but in the end, it’s nothing but lies. I guess.

The paradox, though, is that Armin always knew how to enjoy everything—even the shitty stuff. Crappy clothes? It’s alright, he’d wear them anyway, everything looks cool on him. Bad day? It’s alright, there’s always a way to make up for it when you go home. Threw up all over your couch? It’s alright, you didn’t like it anyway—just buy a new one, goddammit. 

“I don’t have friends,” he said.

How surprising.

“Unbelievable.”

“Yep,” he kept going, “you’re the only one I actually tolerate.”

I laughed dryly.

“Man, you’re at my place.”

Armin shrugged, I turned my head in his direction and just when I was about to say something else, I saw him leaning towards me, so close I had to stop breathing. My heart was beating dangerously fast, and well, Armin looked pleased as fuck. It’s only when he straightened up that I realized he was only reaching out for the remote.

Fuck.

Red cheeks, blocked breath, that’s what Armin does to people. I’m not the only one, and this isn’t the first time. But somehow, you can’t really get used to it.

Armin chuckled softly and changed the TV channel while I watched, speechless. He was such a goddamn little shit.

If you don’t know Armin, then there are some things you need to know. First, he looks like the perfect mix of a girl and a boy. His eyes shine with mischief and cleverness, his waist is thin and I swear these fucking legs are infinite. Long blond hair and short black nails, and he’s dressed in such a way that you don’t really know if that’s cool or just plainly trash. Armin is an awful taste in your mouth, something that won’t go away, but you don’t totally want it go anyway. 

And he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

Even drunk.

Armin turned his head and I caught his eyes, red and as sly as usual. He simply smiled, pretended to watch the TV, and I did the same without a word. 

“I’m still waiting, though.”

“Waiting for what?”

“Your answer.”

I frowned and our eyes met. What the fuck was he talking about?

I searched for something in his eyes, a little gleam of taunt, but there was nothing. He smiled a bit and just said, casually, like it was an evidence: “there’s always something.” 

He threw the remote behind him and I heard it bouncing on the couch. Then he got all on fours and probably got closer than I’d wanted him to be; but once again, drunk Armin had absolutely no notion of distance. That’s what I liked to think at least, until he pressed his mouth close to my left ear and laughed.

“I know what I want from you.”

I didn’t have the time to understand what he’d just said, I didn’t have the time to run away and hide—because Armin’s hand was already on my crotch, and I couldn’t breathe.

“What the fuck are you doing, Armin?”

“Come on, dude—“

“Armin—you’re drunk…”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he said, and I swear his voice was the dangerous mix of challenge and requirement. 

Have you ever met Armin? You can’t say no to Armin. You can’t just say no and do your thing, because Armin always gets what he wants. It doesn’t matter if he’s furious or drunk, it doesn’t matter if he’s ten miles away, he’ll get it anyway. 

I had never felt like a target so far. Armin used to tease me, most of the time, but it never actually got this real. No one told me how to react, no one said, hey, if your best friend tries to give you head, read the instructions. 

The smell of alcohol was stronger than ever and I wondered how many glasses or bottles he had drunk.

“Armin,” I said, but he didn’t listen, and while my hands were unmoving, stuck on the ground, I could feel my heart beating in my ears, just where Armin was. 

I was about to push him away and get the fuck out of here when his lips landed on my chinstrap, forcing me to jerk my head against the couch. I couldn’t recall the last time someone had done this to me, and to be honest, I’m not sure it ever happened. But Armin didn’t count, right? Armin was something else. Armin was both the angel and the goddamn demon, the one you can’t quite get rid of. You don’t really want to anyway.

So I just sat there, telling myself it’d be nothing, telling myself he’d stop in a minute—but he didn’t, and I didn’t forced him to. 

“Armin,” I repeated like I knew I was doing something really, really bad and my conscience was trying to stop it before it’d be too late, but Armin didn’t care, and I felt his long, skilled fingers running over my crotch in the most teasing way.

I was fucked.

“Come on,” he said again, like it would convince me to do so. And I was so close to give up. 

My whole body was responding to everything. His voice, the slow, concentrated movement of his fingers, his stinking breath on my neck and his lips, almost wet, drawing vague lines on my skin. 

It was a huge mistake, I knew this. Armin wasn’t the normal type of friend, you feel me? He’s the “oh, I’m horny, let’s fuck” type of friend. He’s the “well, since we’re here and both single, why not have a little fun” type of friend. He’s the one who doesn’t care about anything, not the way you try to convince yourself that you don’t want it, whatever ‘it’ is, not the words you’ll say to decline the offer. He doesn’t care about the awkwardness and the fact of fucking with a stranger, which I am, mostly.

Armin just wants to see something in your eyes, like the moment you snap and fully abandon yourself.

“We shouldn’t do this,” I breathed, and it felt like there was no air anymore.

“Yeah,” he said between two kisses as I closed my eyes tightly to bear it, “you’ve got so many things to do.” A kiss. “Working.” Another one. “Meeting friends.” And another. “Keeping them…”

His nose brushed my skin and I recognised the horrible feeling of need in my stomach. What Armin was doing wasn’t fair. He knew exactly how I’d react, and he also knew how scared I’d be to admit it. 

I threw my right hand to the ground, and the bowl next to me trembled in a sharp tinkling—I couldn’t care less.

But it wasn’t enough. And Lord knows I was already regretting it.

Armin straddled my left leg and kissed my Adam’s apple. I couldn’t do much other than closing my eyes and searching for the air I needed, and cruelly lacked. 

Then Armin kissed my jaw as his hand kept working at my crotch, as if he perfectly knew how long it would take for me to give it up to him. And when I think about it, I was sleepy and depressed, and Armin didn’t ask anything in return.

It was almost like a gift. A selfish, interested gift. 

But Armin said it, after all. There’s always something.

I didn’t like the idea of Armin going out every night, doing his questionable business in my back, because I didn’t care about that—I didn’t like the idea of Armin sleeping with a fuckton of strangers whose names I’d never know. Armin wasn’t mine and I wasn’t his, but between us, it almost was like a childish game of “who will break first”. I guess we both lost this night.

But suddenly, he removed his hand from my growing bulge and straightened up to look at me in the eyes. I looked back at him, fully awake but somehow distant, between dream and reality, stuck on the thick border.

“Eren?”

My heart raced in my chest and I felt like I had made a mistake. It had to be this, right?

“Can I kiss you?”

Ha. What a fucking mistake. Not, it wasn’t a mistake I had just made—it was the one I was about to make. 

You see, Armin never asks permission for anything. He takes what he wants and rarely gives back. Armin would never ask for permission to kiss you. 

So I stared, stunned and speechless, because I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t sure I wanted it, but something in my guts was telling me I’d be an idiot not to at least try. But, you know, my guts aren’t always good advice, I guess. So we stared at each other in silence, the choked sound of television in the background, and my skin was burning.

When I slowly nodded, I was on fire.

And I died a little when I saw Armin’s eyes shine in the dark, all red and swollen from the alcohol and the sleep deprivation; when I saw the corners of his lips lifting just a bit to shape the purest goddamn smile of the universe. 

I leaned against the couch and he slowly leaned in, both of us fully aware of each other’s lips, slightly parted, just waiting for each other’s to meet our own.

“That’s what I want,” he breathed gently, before closing the gap and meeting my lips in slow motion. 

He put his hands on the border of the couch, on each side of my body, just to make sure I wouldn’t go away. And he kissed me.

At first, I didn’t respond, because I was too panicked to care. But he opened his mouth again, and I felt like it was the thing to do. 

It only took a few seconds for me to give up after that. 

My hands landed around his neck, pulling him closer than he already was, and I embraced the deliciously familiar feeling of heat in my crotch. His was only a few centimeters to mine, and I was dying inside because I knew Armin was right from the beginning.

There’s always something.

Our tongues met and my chest felt tight as I recognized the taste of alcohol in his mouth—but Armin didn’t waste any time. He left my lips and kissed my cheek, which I somehow found cute in this awkward moment, and I felt his arms grabbing my shirt until it was obvious he wanted me to remove it.

I let him do it. He threw it like he had thrown everything else, and the flat alreay was a mess anyway. 

Then Armin kissed my shoulders, my chest, and I watched as he lowered his kisses one by one.

It was both the scariest and hottest thing I’d ever seen. 

My brain told me to stop it right now, and I did the effort to try.

“Armin…” A whisper, a goddamn whisper, and Armin didn’t give a fuck.

I jerked my head back against the couch when I felt the quiet match of his lips on my stomach and his hand back to my crotch. Two seconds later, he grabbed the waistband of my sport short, and I didn’t fight when he lowered it, just enough to kiss the vague line of hair. 

His hands left my short to grab my waist and leave a fuckton of kisses there, and if you don’t know what a kiss feels like, then fuck, you have to. Armin doesn’t help—he’s clever enough to figure out everything. He knows without searching where you want to be kissed, how many times, and clearly wants to watch as you fall apart.

I was hard and desperately trying to hide it, but Armin was no idiot.

Blond strands brushed my skin and I closed my eyes, even when I felt his fingers pulling my short to get me out of it. I somehow managed to help him, and he got rid of it like the shirt I didn’t have anymore. 

During a few seconds, I felt too aware of his gaze wandering over my hard-on, and almost wished he’d look away. But then I thought it wasn’t fair for me to be naked in front of him, that’s when I reached out for his own filthy, oversized shirt. He didn’t fight.

Once it had been removed, I simply lifted my eyes towards Armin to check if the delicious gleam was still there (it was), and long, messy hair almost covered his face. 

I leaned in and caught his lips before he could do anything or do it first, and yes, I felt proud for it. Kind of ashamed, too, because I knew I was just proving that he was right. He could just go back home, leave, because he had the confirmation, right? But he kissed me back and pushed me against the couch when we parted.

He took a step back and spread my legs, and I felt forced to close my eyes when he stopped his face four centimeters away from my dick.

“Don’t look away,” he said in his usual joyful tone, like everything sucked but at the same time, everything was worth it. “You don’t wanna miss that.”

He wrapped his warm fingers around my cock and I gasped for air at the sight, it was overwhelming in every way. I felt too sensitive, too awake, too needy to even try to fight it anymore. So I just let go and grabbed the borders of the couch like he did minutes ago, watching, mesmerised, the softness of his hair in every movement.

“Armin, you’re—“

“Shut up,” he replied, and I swallowed dry.

I couldn’t do anything but watch. 

I couldn’t do anything but watch when he put his lips on the head of my cock, gently pumping it with one hand, the other somehow resting on my thigh. I didn’t want to think of all the times he had done that to other men, I didn’t want to think about “what ifs” and future projection—because I already was in too deep, right?

I wanted to be someone’s bad idea. Armin was mine. I think I had just become his.

His fingers softly stroked my thigh and he lifted his eyes towards me with pure innocence. Goddammit.

I should have been disgusted, I should have said no—he was drunk and sweaty, and I wasn’t even sure I liked boys. But Armin had this particular way to look at me, he’d always give me this strange, disturbing feeling of “yeah, I care but I won’t admit”. Night and day. 

So when he smiled against the tip of my cock, I decided to just fucking let go. I allowed myself to reach out for his hair, and when I finally met it, too soft and thin in my fingers, I closed my eyes again.

I stroked his hair for some time as he kissed my dick from the bottom to the top, and I let out a loud sigh when he took it inside his mouth. Just a few centimeters, three, four at best—but it was enough. His tongue slowly swirled around the head and I fought the urge to ask where he had put it. 

Jealousy struck again and I had to open my eyes to catch Armin’s gaze, in a weak attempt to calm the fuck down. 

He probably felt it, because he breathed against my skin and his free hand drew shapeless forms on my hip, insisting on my hipbone like he was mesmerised. 

Armin rested his cheek against my thigh as his other hand kept pumping, slowly but firmly, with surprising skill. The pace, the pressure—everything was perfect, and it made me angry. Not because it wasn’t pleasant, but because I couldn’t ignore the probability of him learning these things with other men. 

Maybe I liked boys, after all.

Or maybe it was just Armin.

Who cares.

My hand in his hair started to run down his neck and the back of my hand wandered over his cheek, like the almost imperceptible touch of a ghost. I saw Armin close his eyes for a few seconds. 

But just when I thought he’d never open them again, he straightened up and I removed my hand.

“Say, Eren,” his voice sang like he’d never stopped talking. “How many girls have you kissed?”

My mouth felt dry. His piercing eyes were staring at me in the dark, and his voice was strangely alluring.

“Just one, I think,” I managed to reply, and I felt stupid.

“Mikasa, right?” he asked like he was hoping for this answer. He smiled like a demon would and held his head high to face me. “I’ve kissed Mikasa too.”

Silence—well, it seemed like it was silence, but my heart was beating too loudly to be silent too, right? He had to hear it—it almost hurt.

“So,” Armin went on, “who did you prefer?”

To be honest, I’ve only kissed Mikasa once, and we were in high school. We were young and lacking experience, and that seemed like a good idea. We never really talked about it after it happened. I never planned on talking about it again—but the way Armin pronounced Mikasa’s name made all the difference. He was playing with me. Not only was he trying to make me jealous, but he was openly admitting he was jealous, too.

I had kissed Mikasa? Then he’d kiss her too. Why? Because it would create some sort of balance. Maybe it was some sort of vengeance, too. I understood at this exact moment how possessive he was, even though I wasn’t even his. 

He didn’t like me kissing someone else. He didn’t like me kissing a girl—that’s it.

That’s why he leaned in and caught my lips before I could even try to give him an answer, which he already had figured out anyway. He kissed me mercilessly like he thought I deserved it, and I let him. And the deeper we kissed, the faster his hand got, stealing me sighs and silent gasps each time our lips parted—for less than a second.

I wondered why he’d never done anything earlier. It had been months, something like that. Then why only now? And why me?

I felt a wave of heat going from my crotch to my neck, and both of my hands caught Armin’s head to control the kiss. Maybe I was a loser; but I wasn’t totally a loser, because I had Armin.

“Shit, I’m so damn hard,” he breathed against my lips and I felt a smile.

We kissed again, and he stilled without parting. 

“You’re so fucking hot, Eren.”

I suspected him to be talking of my temperature, but decided otherwise. I wasn’t good at this, though. I wasn’t good at dirty talk, or whatever it was. I only knew we were both breathless, and the fact that I wasn’t doing anything to him yet making him so lustful was like a personal achievement.

He left my lips without warning, and smashed his against my left shoulder before leaving a kiss and lowering himself again, creating a delicious bubble of excitement in my guts.

This time, he stopped pumping and licked the sides, patiently working to hear me moan. I jerked my head back and grabbed the border of the couch when he stopped at the head, waiting one or two seconds before letting it in again; that’s when my left hand lost control and landed in his hair, gently grabbing the first strand I’d meet. 

He didn’t mind, and if he did, he didn’t say anything. I didn’t push nor did I pull him back, but I needed this to stay conscious, to have it under control.

And, there, he took it in. Entirely. I gasped for air, begging for oxygen, begging for my lungs to work and my throat to create any sound, just anything—I was breaking at every touch.

Pretty sure I heard Armin take a short intake of air, too. The thought only of having an impact on his sanity made my cock twitch, and I fucking swear it’s the best feeling ever.

I closed my eyes again, and a twisted moan echoed around me. Was it mine? Probably. Then I concentrated on Armin’s lips, Armin’s tongue, the way his hand would help every rare second his mouth wouldn’t be there, how it felt wet and hot inside it. 

I couldn’t tell how long it lasted. Two minutes, maybe twenty, it doesn’t matter.

In the end, Armin gave a final lick and his hand, still firmly wrapped around the base, pressed harder again, and that was it. I felt it like an earthquake, and which members were trembling, I couldn’t really say exactly. My legs, probably, maybe more? But Armin stayed there, two centimeters away from my cock, smiling like the goddamn devil he was—it’s only when I felt everything going dark and vague, when chocked cries exploded in my throat in dozens of wailings, that I realised what was about to happen.

Bam, surprise!

When I opened my eyes, Armin’s lips were wet and white, covered with what I had just released. And he was smiling, again.

I watched in silence as his tongue licked his bottom lip, eyes locked with mine. He wanted me to see this. 

But, strangely enough, he didn’t swallow. He only got closer and stopped before my own lips, slightly parting his as if asking for permission. Probably shouldn’t have, but I gave him anyway. 

Our mouths met and I cringed at the weird, bitter taste of my own semen. I was probably crazy to even allow such a thing, but right now, I was too fazed to care.

The silent exchange became a kiss, and he put his filthy hand in my neck to lead the kiss. Fuck it.

Second after second, we got slower, to finally stop against each other. 

He smiled, his warm breath ended on my face, and I heard his low, devilish voice singing to my ear: “so, what’s your motive?”


End file.
